Literaria

By Carolyn K. Boehlke

As the librarian of the small town where she grew up, Florence Oneirik finds herself in a world of tremendous isolation. To cope with her loneliness, she seeks refuge in her books and finds companionship in the characters. However, as Stanley Kowalski, Atticus Finch, Harry Potter, and others become more and more real to her, Florence can feel her handle on reality beginning to slip away, and the characters start to take on lives of their own. Once she develops a relationship with Liam Jacheson, a patron of the library, Florence ultimately finds herself conflicted between living in a reality that demands she acknowledge her past and a fiction that allows her to escape but one that she knows is false.

• Language: English
• Publisher: North Star Press of St. Cloud
• Release date: Jun 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9780878399574

Carolyn K. Boehlke

Carolyn K. Boehlke was born and raised in Stevens Point, Wisconsin. St. Olaf College brought her to Minnesota, where she graduated with bachelor's degrees in English and Women's Studies, and she later earned a Master of Fine Arts degree in Creative Writing from Hamline University. She is the author of Chasing the Moon, and she currently lives in Minneapolis with her husband and children.

Book preview

Literaria

Carolyn K. Boehlke

North Star Press of St. Cloud, Inc.

St. Cloud, Minnesota

Copyright © 2014 Carolyn K. Boehlke

Cover art by Patricia Gausmann

Print ISBN 978-0-87839-717-4

eBook ISBN 978-0-87839-957-4

All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

First Edition, June 2014

Published by

North Star Press of St. Cloud, Inc.

P.O. Box 451

St. Cloud, Minnesota 56302

www.northstarpress.com

Acknowledgement

Thank you to Patricia Gausmann for her talent and creativity in the cover art, and for her unwavering friendship and support.

Dedication

For Benjamin and Madalyn

Table of Contents

Acknowledgement

Dedication

Preface

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Afterward

Post Script

Preface

2001

In the days and weeks after, Florence could sometimes wake up before she remembered all that had happened. In those fleeting seconds, which became shorter and shorter as time passed, she could feel warm, safe, and comforted. Before she was fully awake, she could hear peaceful snoring beside her and feel a gentle good morning nudge. Once her eyes opened, however, the emptiness of her world crashed around her, and she was jolted unceremoniously into a cold reality that left her agonizingly lonely.

For a while, Florence kept their pictures up around the apartment, hoping that their symbolic presence would help her to heal. But they only existed as heartbreaking reminders, so she forced herself to put them away. Lovingly, she packed away all she had left of both of them, swaddled in a box she would keep in the corner of her closet.

She would have moved, sold the apartment they had chosen together, but there seemed to be an unspoken betrayal in that action. Even though he was gone, and she knew in her heart he wouldn’t be back, she felt the home that had been theirs together, even for as brief a time as it was, needed to stay with her. Over time it became more hers and less theirs. She replaced his frumpy college futon with a comfortable overstuffed couch. On a street corner, under a sign that read Free, Florence discarded the kitchen table they had bought at a garage sale and the mismatched chairs that had found their way to their place from his mother’s house. Eventually she pulled down his poster of Jimmy Hendrix and hung in its place a print of a Klimt painting. While she could replace the things, Florence couldn’t replace the place itself.

The day he left had felt like the ending, but looking back, Florence realized it was actually the beginning. As clichéd as it felt to say her world changed forever that day, the unoriginality of the very idea became her reality, and the banality of it became her newfound comfort. That evening, after the tears had been momentarily staunched, and as Delia was cleaning up the piles of tissues and empty tissue boxes, she inadvertently opened a door that Florence was sucked through and would never be able to close.

Do you want me to stay tonight? Delia had asked as she put a bag of trash by the door to take out when she left.

No, Florence said, her voice thick with snot.

Are you sure? I hate to think of you being alone tonight.

I’ll be all right, Florence had insisted, though she knew it was anything but true.

Delia paused. All right. She shrugged into her coat, a sign of the uncharacteristically cool summer. Don’t forget there are leftovers in the fridge. I’ll call you tomorrow.

Florence gave an inaudible grunt of recognition. Gingerly shifting her weight, she pulled her blanket up higher across her aching chest, unable to distinguish the difference between the pain in her heart and the pain in her breast. The bag of trash banged against Delia’s leg as she twisted around to retrieve something from her bag. Here, she said, shoving a book into Florence’s hands. Why don’t you read? It might take your mind off . . . things.

The title blurred in Florence’s tears. Bridget Jones’s Diary. Delia always read stuff like this—chick lit, they called it at school, not real literature. Florence tried to smile, acknowledging the gesture. Thanks, she muttered. She held the book against her as though it was a shield, as though the words could seep from the pages into her chest and begin to heal her soul.

After Delia left that night, Florence read the book cover to cover. Despite the clock having ticked the hours well past midnight, Florence couldn’t bring herself to lie in an empty bed. So she read. In the early hours of the morning, when she finished Delia’s book, Florence retrieved her tattered copy of Pride and Prejudice, and read until well past the break of day and through the bustle of life on the street outside her window. Only when Mr. Darcy was able to express his love for Elizabeth did Florence feel sufficiently numb to her life and was able to put herself to bed. She propped the book on the empty side of the bed so she wouldn’t feel so alone after all.

Chapter One

October 2008

STANLEY

Florence tossed her keys on the table by the door as she entered her dark apartment. They landed with a loud clunk that echoed across the sparsely furnished room. She juggled her mail and three grocery bags as she fought her way into the room, tripping over the shoes she had left by the door that morning. One of the bags of groceries tipped over her arm, and in the dark she could hear the bag of apples strike the floor and the newly bruised fruit roll away from her. She cursed under her breath and hit the light switch with her elbow.

The room, awash in a faint yellow light, suddenly felt enormous to Florence, and she paused a moment before dragging her undamaged groceries into the kitchen. What’s fer dinner? a voice resonated as Florence dropped the bags onto the counter, already littered with junk mail and last night’s dishes.

Florence didn’t turn to the sound of the voice, but her back straightened. I don’t suppose you could help me? she asked as she began to unpack the bags.

A snort. No.

She snorted back. Of course not, she said and shoved the yogurt into the refrigerator, beside the yogurt from last month she needed to throw away. So are you just here to mock me? she asked, unable to hide the resentment and sarcasm from her voice.

Florence, he said gently. Ya know I’d never mock ya.

She snorted again. Right. She could almost feel his hands on her arms as she turned her back to the door. She shrugged the sensations away with a shiver and reached for a pan from the cupboard. You never do much for me, she muttered to herself. The pan banged loudly against the stove and the dial clicked as she turned on the burner beneath it.

C’mon now, baby, he said. She recognized the lilt to his voice and immediately felt herself melting. Even with her back turned, she could picture his swollen biceps beneath the snug white t-shirt. She could smell his sweat. The kitchen suddenly felt close. Florence closed her eyes and felt his fingers against the back of her neck. Her tongue moistened her lips as she prepared herself to be spun into his strong, waiting arms. She could almost feel the heat of him behind her. His sweet breath, with the hint of whiskey, caressed the top of her head. Whatcha makin’ fer dinner? he whispered in her ear.

Florence’s eyes snapped open. Is that all you can think about? she barked and popped open the top of her soup can. The liquid sizzled for a moment against the sides of the heating pan.

Florence turned to finish putting the groceries away. She knew she was being too hard on him, but it had been a rough day. All she needed when she came home was a little compassion. Florence glanced through the apartment and momentarily wondered how one person could make such a mess. How she longed to feel those strong arms around her. Her co-workers told her stories of their husbands and boyfriends making romantic dinners, even occasionally cleaning the apartment on a special occasion.

Florence sighed and put the boxes of Fruit Loops and Special K in the cupboard above the refrigerator. She was just a little too short to reach. Suddenly, he was there behind her again. His long bronzed arm reached above her head to help. With a little hop, Florence shoved the boxes the rest of the way into the cupboard, knowing she would need the tongs to get them out in the morning.

Again, Florence felt his breath against the top of her ear. Her stomach fluttered and her knees weakened. Yer soup’s burnin’.

Damn, she said and jerked the pan off the burner. Florence stirred the soup, scraping the hardening sludge from the bottom. Chunks of darkened chowder floated to the surface. She crinkled her nose and tried to break them apart with the tip of the spoon.

Jus’ toss it, he said. Make somethin’ different.

That’s such a waste, she said and ran the spoon around the edge of the pan, skimming away a thickened film.

Florence grabbed a stained hot pad and tossed it onto the littered table. She plopped the ruined soup, still in the pan, on the pad and stirred it again, as though motion would make it more appealing. As she chewed the crusted soup, Florence fingered through the mail. She always hated the sight of her name. Florence. It immediately made her think of Florence Henderson of The Brady Bunch, which made her feel older than she really was. Florence should be a woman in her sixties with wispy white hair and gaudy costume jewelry.

She glanced up at her reflection in the microwave window. Her flyaway black hair was too bushy and unwieldy. Even from here, across the kitchen, Florence could see the painfully large and glaring red pimple that jutted from her chin. Disgusted she looked away and turned back to her soup.

Ya look beautiful, he said. She briefly closed her eyes and felt his hands in her hair.

You don’t mean that, she muttered.

’Course I do. His voice calmed her worries and insecurities. His hands were suddenly gone and without looking, she knew he was lounging back in his chair, his work boots propped up on the dining room table.

Florence sighed and gently placed her spoon beside the still warm, though now empty, pan. I think we need to talk.

Oh, baby, he said. His feet hit the floor. Don’t say that. I know what’cher gonna say. Don’t say it.

I have to, she argued gently. This just isn’t working.

Well, whatcha ’spect? he asked, suddenly defensive. I can’t change who I am.

She sighed and pushed herself up from the table. Florence carefully placed her pan in the sink and ran water in an attempt to soak off the burned crust at the bottom. I know that. I don’t hold that against you.

Whatcha want from me?

I thought I knew, Florence said. I guess it just isn’t you.

He paused. She imagined the wood creak as he paced the floor. His hand was in his hair. She could feel his anguish. She looked away, unable to watch him, knowing it was only the image of him that she loved. Please . . . she almost heard him mutter. Please, Florence.

No. She pushed him away. I’m sorry.

Before she could look up from where her toes were gripping the floor, Florence knew he was already gone. The apartment echoed with her footsteps as she padded down the hall to her bedroom. A tattered copy of A Streetcar Named Desire was waiting by her bed. In only the light from the hall, Florence reverently picked it up from the night table and carefully squeezed it between two books on her bookcase. Fully clothed, Florence crawled into bed and pulled the quilt up over her head. Her shaggy hair tickled her chin, but she didn’t push it away. She could feel tears smarting her eyes as she tried to will herself to sleep.

WILLIAM

In the morning, Florence rubbed her eyes with her knuckles until she could see spots. Her mother always warned her, but some days she just didn’t care if she went blind. She crawled from beneath the covers and grunted at her rumpled clothes. She forced herself to walk past the bookcase without looking at it on her way to the bathroom. Florence stripped and allowed her clothes to pile around her feet. Carefully she stepped onto the scale, knowing she would leap off before the numbers stopped spinning beneath the dial. Most days she wondered why she even kept the scale. She didn’t even know exactly what she weighed. She didn’t want to. She could look in the mirror, grab the handfuls of flesh around her belly and pinch the excess skin beneath her arms. That was enough to not want to know what the scale said.

The bathroom was fogged with steam by the time Florence stepped from the shower. She wiped her hand across the mirror to clear the image, wishing she could clear away the pimple as easily. She poked at it with her nail, but she was too squeamish to actually pop it. Her hair, though wet, already sprang from her head in frizzed coils. She made a face at herself and quickly looked away.

The bath towel wrapped around her body, Florence stood before her closet and faced her daily dilemma of what to wear. Most of the clothes in her closet no longer fit her, but she kept them around just in case. Maybe one of these days the diet would actually work. Florence found a blouse that still buttoned across her chest, and retrieved a pair of pants from the closet floor that weren’t too wrinkled. She turned her back to the bookcase as though the characters in the books could watch her. She dressed quickly.

Folding her damp towel over her arm, Florence finally allowed herself to look at her books. This was the moment she looked forward to each week—the start of a new book. She hungrily scanned the titles, the characters and stories tempting her as they tried to entice themselves off the shelves. Harry Potter, The Bell Jar, The Kite Runner, We Were the Mulvaneys, Anna Karenina, Don Quixote, Jane Eyre. Each title was more engaging than the last. The minutes on Florence’s clock ticked loudly and warned her that work would be starting soon. With a heavy sigh, Florence grabbed her copy of The Complete Works of William Shakespeare. She’d page through and find something to read at lunch. There was something comforting about carrying so many characters along with her.

Every day of work was the same for Florence. Some days she sat behind her high desk and wondered what it would be like to work as a doctor or a teacher or even as a salesperson. Anywhere that would bring a little variety to her life. Instead, she sat behind the circulation desk and watched the pile of books behind her grow until the part-time staff came to re-shelve them. She filled out forms and processed requests from other libraries, trying not to feel personally affronted that patrons didn’t want to read the books in her library. Watching students come in to study, she tried to mentally coax them to her desk. Please, come ask me a question, she begged silently. But they never did. And so, every day, Florence waited for the hands of the clock to spin around until noon when she could slip into the employee lounge, which was really a large closet with a broken coffee machine, and read for her thirty minutes of prescribed break time.

After work, Florence walked the six blocks through the small town to her apartment. Autumn had descended and was viciously threatening winter. In the summer she walked that path slowly, enjoying the outdoors, breathing in the fresh air, and listening to life through her neighbors’ open windows. But now that it was dark as she trekked home, Florence kept her chin tucked into the collar of her coat and watched her feet shuffle quickly through the dead and brittle leaves.

When Florence shoved her shoulder against the sticky door of her apartment, she hadn’t expected him to arrive already. But as she tripped over her shoes in the doorway, she immediately knew he was there. Where are you? she asked, dropping her keys loudly on the table by the door.

Greetings, fair maid, he said.

Florence immediately felt her cheeks flame. She could feel him help her peel her damp coat from her shoulders. His fingers were delicate and gentle. His very presence made her feel warm and comfortable. I didn’t expect to see you, she said as he followed her into the kitchen.

To wait anon would be true despair. She felt his fingers against the back of her hand as she tugged open the refrigerator door. Prithee tell of thou day, my love.

Florence felt herself giggle. Oh, what does that matter, now that you’re here? she said and turned to him. I waited for you, hoping you’d come.

Alas, I have. What sustenance whilst thou prepare this eve?

As he watched over her shoulder, Florence put a frozen hamburger patty in the microwave. As it began to sizzle, she scraped a spot of green mold off the top of a bun and smelled the potato salad she found at the back of the fridge. His gaze felt comforting and loving, even as she spooned the questionable salad directly into her mouth from the container. Once the microwave beeped, Florence piled her burger high with cheese and ketchup. Walking past the pile of dishes in the sink, she placed her burger carefully on a paper towel and sat at the table with the spoon still in the container of potato salad.

A student asked me to research oil drilling on national wildlife preserves, she said and took a large bite of her hamburger. He stared at her blankly. There was silence between them as she chewed and swallowed. She cleared her throat. A student asked me to research the royal family, she tried again.

At this his face brightened. Resolve me of thine quest.

Florence told him of the books she would have found, the secrets she would have uncovered. His eyes were riveted to her face as she spoke. She felt the dollop of ketchup at the corner of her lip but allowed his graceful and tender fingers to wipe it away for her. Shall we have some wine? she asked as she crumpled the empty paper towel and stood.

As thou desire.

From the sink, beneath a pan crusted with dried egg, Florence fished out a juice glass. She rinsed it with water and wiped it dry, though it still smelled faintly of sour orange juice. The cork popped from the bottle of Cheap Red Wine. Florence licked the splash from her finger and poured the wine.

Let’s sit on the couch, she invited.

Florence moved a quilt and pile of books to the floor to make room. She stretched out on the couch and felt her feet cradled in his arms. Florence took a sip of her wine and cringed at the sharp taste. She never liked wine, but drinking red wine seemed to be the thing that women in their thirties did, so Florence decided she needed to as well. She took another sip, feeling her tongue retract from the taste, and quickly swallowed. She placed the glass on the floor beside her and leaned back.

This is nice. This is how it should be.

He smiled. To love, perchance for life, he muttered. She felt his hands slide up her leg and rest warmly against the inside of her knee. His weight shifted beside her and her tongue slid between her lips. Her lashes brushed against her cheeks as her eyes fluttered closed. She parted her lips and waited.

The sudden and harsh ring of the phone startled her. Florence sprang up and dove for the phone across the couch. Excuse me she muttered as she reached for it. Hello, she said, trying to hide the desperation from her voice.

Hey, Flo, a voice crackled through the phone.

Hi, Delia, Florence said.

In every relationship, there is a dominant person. When Florence first met Delia in junior high, Florence had been the dominant one. She was already familiar with the school and the town, and Delia had newly arrived from, as she said, Podunkville, U.S.A. In high school, Florence was on the debate team and the track team. Delia was shy and awkward and chose to remain hidden in the clarinet section of the marching band. Perhaps it was when Jason died or when Michael left, but at some point, their relationship shifted. Delia became Florence’s anchor. Florence found herself reaching to her friend more and more. Her need for Delia’s quiet stability became a hunger. Delia would never take advantage of her friend, but seeing how important she was in Florence’s life, she allowed herself to become the dominant friend. She became the friend who made their lunch plans. She decided which movie they would see. She waited an extra day to return Florence’s phone calls. And Florence waited. She second-guessed herself and waited for Delia to reach back to her.

What’s going on? I haven’t talked to you forever.

I know, Florence said and picked up her juice glass of wine from the floor. I called you last week.

Yeah, I’m sorry I didn’t call back sooner. It’s been so crazy. We got this new account at work, and I’ve been putting in, like, twelve-hour days. Plus, David insisted on taking me out to dinner three times in the last week. I swear I’m going to gain ten pounds this month. Florence stopped listening. It wasn’t that she didn’t like David or wasn’t happy for her friend. She just didn’t like the painful reminder of what her life could have been. Florence closed her eyes and imagined the feeling of gentle and loving hands on her feet, caressing her legs, timidly touching her waist, brushing her hair from her shoulder, stroking her cheek. Her stomach clenched tightly around her sheer need. . . . take me to New York for the weekend. Florence snapped back to the conversation.

David wants to take you to New York?

Yes, Delia said. It’s our six-month anniversary. I just don’t know if I have the time to take off from work.

But it’s New York. How often do you have the chance to go to New York?

She sighed. I know. I suppose I should go.

Florence looked at the seat beside her on the couch. Oh, my chuck, he whispered. Let not jealousy befall thy heart. Thou art deserving of such a prize. Florence sank into the couch and felt his arm wrap warmly around her shoulders. She could smell the harsh lye soap he used to wash his clothes. She closed her eyes and pressed the phone tighter against her ear, though Delia’s words were now no more than static to her. As she pressed her ear to his chest, the thump of his heart matched her own. She felt a sudden chill and longed to pull the quilt up from the floor, but instead took a large swallow of the wine.

Flo? Are you still there? Florence?

She realized that Delia had been calling her name for a while. Yes, I’m here.

Are you all right? her friend asked. You seem distracted.

Florence shook her head. I’m fine, she said even as she felt the tears prickle behind her tightly closed eyelids. I’m just tired.

I’ll let you go then, she said. Are we still on for coffee this weekend?

Yes, on Saturday, Florence confirmed, already knowing she would call her friend late Friday night and plead a sore throat on her answering machine. I’ll see you then. Florence quickly hung up before Delia could reply. The phone bounced off the couch where she dropped it and landed on the floor. The battery popped out of the back and Florence left it beside the abandoned apple she missed when she cleaned up the scattered fruit that morning.

Florence pushed herself up from the couch. I’m going to bed, she announced.

He grabbed for her hand. "Wait, leman. You must impeach these fetches. A friend’s toy shall not fret you. Be the list of my being."

Florence felt the tug of his grasp on her arm, and her exhaustion overwhelmed her. Her chest shuddered with a deep sigh. This no good, she said and pulled herself away. Without looking back, she stood before her bookcase and carefully returned The Complete Works of William Shakespeare to its shelf. And he was gone.

JAY

Florence called into work the next morning. She made her voice sound raspy and plugged her nose as she talked. She cancelled her coffee date with Delia and spent the next four days in bed. Mid-afternoon on the following Monday, Florence heard the door to her apartment open. She swallowed the initial fear that jumped from her stomach to her throat, and silently prayed a crazy man from the street had come to kill her. She imagined the headlines in the morning: Woman, dead, bravely fought attacker.

Flo? Delia’s voice was timid as she pushed open the bedroom door. Florence peeked over the edge of the quilt and watched her friend step cautiously into the dim bedroom. Hi, she ventured. Florence blinked in reply as though that was all the movement her body had the energy for. I didn’t think you were dead, because I didn’t smell anything when I came in the apartment. Are you really this sick? she asked. She had started to sit on the side of the bed, but stopped herself and took a small step away.

Florence cleared her throat. Yes, she lied. Her voice, unused for days, cracked over the word.

Well, I missed you this weekend, so I thought I’d come over and try to make you feel better.

I’m fine. You didn’t need to come over, Florence protested though she prayed Delia wouldn’t leave.

Ugh, it’s so dark in here, Delia said and crossed the room. She yanked open the curtains and the room immediately flooded with light, particles of dust suspended in the beams of sunshine.

Can I get you anything? Have you eaten today? Delia asked. Florence cleared her throat and pointed to the empty package of Oreos beside the bed. Delia placed her hands on her narrow hips and Florence was immediately reminded of her mother. I’ll go make you something to eat.

You don’t have to do that, Florence protested again, her voice a little too quiet for Delia to hear as she scurried from the room.

Florence listened for a minute to Delia washing the dishes in her sink before her friend reappeared in the door.

I almost forgot. I brought you a present. She handed Florence a book, the cover slightly damp from Delia’s dishwater soaked hands. I know you’ve read it and probably already have a copy. Her eyes darted briefly to Florence’s wall of books. But it reminded me of high school so I thought it would be fun for you to read again.

She looked at the dark cover of The Great Gatsby. Over the top of the book, Florence could immediately spot her copy of the book on the top shelf of her bookcase. Thanks, she said.

Why don’t you read for a little while, while I make us some dinner?

Florence hugged the book to her chest like a child. She closed her eyes and listened to the sounds of the kitchen. Comfort covered her like a blanket. When the rattling of the dishes died away, the sizzle and smell of chicken on the stove crept into the room.

Why so sad, my dear? he said, and she could feel the edge of the bed sink under the weight of him as he leaned over her.

She smiled briefly and cautiously opened her eyes to look into his refined and handsome face. I’m not sad. Now that you’re here.

He seemed to relax and chuckled. "Where else would I be?

You know Delia is just in the other room, she whispered.

He tenderly brushed a curl from her forehead. Doesn’t that make life more exciting?

You make life more exciting, she countered.

Do you know what I was thinking? he said as his fingers lingered by the side of her temple and trailed down her cheek. I thought it might be time to show you off a little?

Florence immediately felt herself sink down further under her blankets. As she tried to pull her covers up over her head, he playfully tugged them back down.

Don’t do that, he said, his voice more forceful than she would have expected. I’ll have a party next Saturday.

She shook her head. We can’t.

He smiled in a knowing way. Yes, we can, he said carefully. Immediately Florence knew he wouldn’t last, but she wasn’t ready to let him go yet.

All right, she assented.

Florence? Delia’s voice carried from down the hall. Is there someone on the phone? I thought I heard you talking, she said as she appeared around the corner.

Florence could feel her face flush, and the weight of him was immediately gone from the bed beside her. No, she said quickly. Sometimes you can hear the neighbor’s TV through the wall, she offered as an explanation.

Delia smiled and brushed a wisp of her long blonde hair behind her ear. Dinner’s ready, she said. Why don’t you come and eat in the kitchen. You’ll feel better if you get out of bed.

Even though Delia and Florence had been friends for over twenty years and had seen each other at their worst, including the most violent hangovers of their college years, Florence was instantly self-conscious as she slid from beneath the covers. As she crossed the room, she was acutely aware of her grimy hair flattened to one side of her head, her slimy unbrushed teeth, her rumpled pajamas, but mostly of her jiggling rolls of flesh and sagging unsupported breasts that seemed so much more pronounced in the presence of Delia’s lithe and willowy frame. Either disgusted or aware of her embarrassment, Delia quickly turned away and led them down the hallway to the kitchen.

The kitchen had been cleaned and the table cleared of its debris. Delia had set a place at the table and filled a plate with sautéed chicken over rice, steamed carrots, and a fresh dinner roll. Florence felt her stomach rumble as she slipped into the seat.

This looks wonderful, she breathed and allowed the steam from the food to momentarily condense on her face. I didn’t even know I had all these ingredients, she laughed.

Delia smiled awkwardly. I hope it tastes all right, she said and ran a damp sponge across the already clean counter top. Florence mumbled through a mouthful of food, and Delia nodded. Okay then, she said. I need to take off.

The chicken suddenly seared Florence’s tongue, and she choked and coughed. You’re leaving? she squeaked.

I’m sorry, hon, she said as she backed toward the door. I have to get a bunch of work done tonight. David and I are leaving on Wednesday night for New York.

Florence coughed again and carefully placed her fork against the edge of her plate. She stared at it a moment, startled by the sudden tears prickling her eyes. All right, she said in an attempt to make her voice more cheerful than she was. Thanks so much for dinner. You were right. I feel a lot better.

I’m glad, Delia said softly. Florence could feel her pause. Suddenly she felt Delia’s long smooth arm wrap around from behind her. She could smell her Japanese Cherry Blossom perfume as she pressed her cheek to Florence’s frizzy hair.

Take care of yourself, she said gently. Florence closed her eyes, and Delia quickly released her. I’ll give you a call before I leave for New York, she promised, already across the room and moving toward the door.

Have a good time, Florence called after her. Thank you, she added, but Delia had already closed the door behind her.

The silence of the apartment felt like a physical